If this country were inhabited by any other race, the people would most definitely lapse into a drunken siesta at this time of the day in the middle of high summer. The Bengalis, or rather Bihari labourers, on the contrary, seemed to thrive in the heat. The rickshaw pullers trawled barefooted through the coal hot streets, labourers hacked away at the construction sites, delivery men with heap of goods piled on their heads bobbed along, the energy was primal, trance like, everything seemed connected with an invisible rhythm that infuses the people with this zest. Or perhaps it was impossible to even stop for a breather in this crowded metropolis where everything is moving. The city's inhabitants thrive on its dysfunctional systems; where the roads become choked with rubbish and traffic, and floods threaten to cripple the city during monsoon season, delivery men and rickshaw wallahs offered their labour. A Muslim call for prayer sounded from a mosque, invisible from where I was standing. The frenzy had reached its climax.
***
After taking a breather back in my room, I took the metro to the northern stretches of the city to look for this Marble Palace listed in Lonely Planet. The metro was rather dingy, the stations over-sized. The system seemed underutilized by Kolkata standards perhaps due to their limited coverage: there was only one line running north-south. But it was impossibly cheap with the most expensive ride being 16rps. The trains reminded me of the ones in Beijing with their old fashioned rectilinear industrial appearance, the loud exhaust fans blowing over your heads, and the same metallic, mechanical odour. Both were probably built with the same Soviet technology.
The neighbourhood around the subway exit was occupied by the usual rundown colonial era buildings, but here in the suburbs, urban poverty was unabashedly stark. The side lanes, relatively protected from the unruly vehicular traffic, were colonized by squatters who territorialized their spaces with architecture at its most elemental: a pilotis of four poles supporting a flimsy piece of fabric, providing the inhabitants with the bare minimum of a roof over their heads. The squatters carried out their daily chores oblivious of the public nature of their situation. It made me embarrassed even to look at them: this is Shigeru Ban's Curtain House and Mies' Farnsworth House pushed to the extremes.
I went on in search of the Marble Palace, but no one knew about it, not even the police stationed at the Metro. But the sketch map on Lonely Planet proved surprisingly accurate and I found it along this small road bustling with pedestrian activities as with any others. The Marble Palace, though, was unmistakable. It stood in the middle of a landscaped compound, a generous oasis of space fenced off from the outside world. The mansion, buffered from the decay that surrounds it, still stood resplendent as if oblivious of its decrepit environment. The security guard demanded the permit which was required from all visitors, but i produced a 100rp note instead. He gladly accepted my offer and I stepped into the lush, manicured front yard from the hot, noisy street strewn with cow dung and rubbish, an Alice in Wonderland experience.
I was again asked for the permit at the entrance to the mansion by a caretaker, and I hesitated, not wanting to pay another bribe. The man seemed to have understood that I had already paid the guard and motioned me to follow a young boy who was to guide me around the mansion. It was yet another world inside the building, owned by some wealthy Indian man during the British Raj. Every surface was adorned with opulent paintings, every room filled with treasures and sculptures of legends and gods and monarchs, every object covered with a fine coating of dust, an indication of the fact that they belonged to another era. The efforts to isolate the mansion from its environs could be seen even within the building: to prevent the huge, terrifying Indian crows from disrupting this bubble of peace, the central courtyard was netted over. But the birds retaliated by crapping all over it; this is an uphill battle.
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